Ossia
by Katja1
Summary: Katya has some questions for Sark. Set after The Enemy Walks In.


Disclaimer: The characters are not mine.  
  
The simple truth of the matter was that he would never have opened the door if he hadn't been two weeks late on his rent. His Los Angeles landlord was a nice enough fellow, and he had the money. He just hadn't been around for any period long enough to do something so mundane as attend to his apartment bill, and his employer had been too preoccupied with more important endeavors to either remind him or take care of it herself. A man in his position should rely solely upon hotel rooms, he supposed, but he rather liked having at least one constant residence, one steady secret home for the possessions he'd managed to acquire that were solely his.   
  
Therefore, he opened the door without hesitation, certain that it would be Mr. Dilsizian, simply curious about whether he intended to pay this month's rent anytime this month. Only one other person in the world knew about this assumed name and this address.  
  
Apparently, she'd told someone else.  
  
It seemed somehow perverse that the woman should even be visible during daylight hours, but there she was before him, her black-ringed eyes sizing him up. She apparently decided he wasn't a threat, and so presented a smile, quick but predatory. "Where is she?"   
  
"Hello," he said, not nearly bold enough to refer to her by her first name, not submissive enough to call her by her last.   
  
"I would not have bothered with you," she replied, "except I cannot seem to find my sister anywhere in this city, yet this is where I am told she is."  
  
"She is currently in CIA custody," he said, closing the door behind her.   
  
She appraised him once more, as if for the first time. "I'm impressed. Was it you?"  
  
"She turned herself in."  
  
"For what purpose?"  
  
"I can't say."  
  
"Because you don't know," she assessed, sitting down in his favorite chair, the black Barcelona.  
  
"I do know," he said, leaning against the doorway. "What I don't know is whether or not I'm allowed to tell you."  
  
"You're still afraid of her. That's rather sweet, considering."  
  
"As should you be, considering."  
  
Her mouth quirks up around the edges. "I did nothing to her."  
  
"The only reason she didn't pursue you immediately after discovering your attempt to sell that device to--"  
  
"We would have retrieved it handily, and gained some additional funds in the process," she said dismissively.   
  
"Well, she thought you were dead, anyway. So did we all. You are apparently not; therefore, would you like a drink?"  
  
"No," she said.  
  
"You won't mind--"  
  
"No," she said again, as he crossed to the bar. She tilted her head slightly, looking at him as if only now realizing his youth. "You mean she heard the story; she would never have believed it, and neither, I am certain, would you."  
  
He kept his back turned as he poured his own drink, light on the alcohol; if she was ready for an altercation, there would be no sense in making it easier for her. "That story"--he imitated her emphasis on the word _story_--"was sufficiently plausible. Done in by a disgruntled lover, isn't that the preferred mode of departure for all Derevko women, in the last century or so at least?"  
  
"Still, she would not have believed it," she insisted. "That makes me wonder why I was not informed about this."  
  
He sat down opposite her, in his second-favorite chair, which was remarkably similar to his actual favorite, except that it was red instead of black, a whim which had not panned out. Allison preferred red to black, passion and war to death and decay, and he'd bought the chair in the interest of one day trusting her enough to bring her here. That day hadn't come, and now she was gone, indefinitely.

"Perhaps she thought you'd try to stop her, or sabotage her again," he offered lazily, not particularly engaged with the subject.   
  
She shrugged. "We could discuss my sister's motivations until next Tuesday and still not know the answer with any certainty."  
  
"What did you want?" he finally asked.  
  
She settled back into her chair. "I don't know whether I'm allowed to tell you."   
  
"She will be away for some time."  
  
"I don't suppose you're planning to take advantage of her absence." She shook her head. "You have such a reputation for being vicious, and yet you always disappoint me."  
  
"Why does she forgive you, when you do these things? Even if your intention this time was not to betray her, certainly there are twenty other incidents in which it has been."  
  
"That's a rather harsh view of the subject."  
  
He did not bother to respond.  
  
"Maybe it's a test of her loyalty. But she's too smart for tests like that," and suddenly Katya was talking to no one in particular.  
  
He simply nodded, at a bit of a loss, and silence descended. He regretted the decision not to put ice in his glass, and set it aside.  
  
"So," she said brightly. "Refresh my memory. How long has it been?"  
  
"I must say, I'm surprised you don't remember the exact date of our last encounter."  
  
"Oh, I remember that well enough. Irina was quite incensed." She laughed. "I meant, how long have you been working for her?"   
  
"With her," he corrected. "Eleven years."   
  
"She always did have that nurturing instinct. I don't," she said matter-of-factly.   
  
"Really?"  
  
Katya ignored him. "I suppose that's why she was able to fake her marriage so well, and motherhood after that. I couldn't fake it, or believe in it, either."  
  
He finished his overly-warm drink, slowly, as he attempted to figure out a response.  
  
"What about you, I wonder? Having been nurtured so well yourself, of course?" Although there was a trace of bitterness in her voice, she bore down on him once more. The alcohol was beginning to cloud his perception; when he closed his eyes, they continued to burn inside as if he had dared to stare into the heart of the sun.  
  
"Time will tell," he replied dispassionately, opening his eyes.  
  
"No one on your horizon?" she asked, her tone deceptively light.  
  
He thought of Allison, offering herself up for a cause no one save a few lunatics actually cared about. She admired Irina, and had thought this selfless act would prove her loyalty once and for all, even if it hadn't been in question; after all, who else would give up their entire identity to advance this silly quest? He laughed involuntarily, and when he looked up, she appeared to still expect an answer. "Not anymore," he said.  
  
"Oh. Yes, of course."  
  
He rushed to clarify, a second too late: "No, that's not--"  
  
She held up a hand. "I know about your lover, what she's working on now." She paused. "What did you think I meant?"  
  
He smiled and shook his head. This was not a game he was willing to play. "Exactly what you said. Now, I apologize, but I have an appointment that must be kept. If you leave your information, I will contact you upon her extraction." He retrieved a pencil and paper from a nearby desk; she took them with bemusement, obediently writing down numbers as he pressed on. "But only with her permission, you understand, so perhaps you shouldn't wait by the phone."

He stood by the door, as if to indicate that she should do the same. She remained seated and held his gaze. "Where do you have to go? She's locked away."  
  
"There are still business affairs that require my attention, now even more than before."  
  
"That's too bad," she mused. "I thought you might like to talk about Sydney Bristow."  
  
He sat down again, slowly. "What do you know about Sydney Bristow?"  
  
Her tone changed as if she had changed the subject entirely. "How did you feel when she explained the situation to you? That she had a daughter, and a husband from whom she'd never even formally been divorced?" She smiled, as if lost in thought. "I can only imagine."  
  
"You must stay far away from Sydney Bristow." He kept his voice low. "You can't endanger this operation, not after--"  
  
"How did you feel?" she repeated.  
  
He sighed. "What do you want me to say?"  
  
"Answer the question. Unless you'd like me to guess."  
  
"I don't--"  
  
"I would be, you understand, quite qualified to venture a guess."  
  
He didn't follow, and didn't particularly care to follow, but it seemed she intended to explain anyway.  
  
"I assume you also were not informed about the existence of her daughter until it suited her purposes."  
  
"Yes," he admitted.  
  
"Tell me, how did you feel? I could tell you how I felt, but your relationship with my sister is necessarily different from mine, so--I'm just curious." She drew back her lips once more. "Did you feel she had betrayed you, or were you more understanding?"  
  
"It really isn't a subject worth discussing." He looked away.  
  
"Interesting," she said, finally rising. "I like you, Mr. Sark. You deserve better. Something more."  
  
He remained silent.  
  
"It must have stung," she continued. "It must have cut you so deeply to know there was another, someone else she would put her life on the line to protect, perhaps more readily than she would have done for your sake." She came closer now.  
  
"What are you doing?" he asked, barely audible, as he glanced up at her.  
  
"Did you break? Not for long, right? You're still here. If you'd really felt it, you would not still be sitting here, telling me what you are allowed and not allowed to tell me."   
  
His pulse betrayed his countenance. He tried to concentrate on remaining impassive: steady, even breathing, that was the key. If he wanted to, he could turn her away, push her out the door and lock the deadbolt, rip the telephone cord out of the wall. He knew he should, but--  
  
"Perhaps you do not really love her." She paused. "But why else would you stay?"  
  
"You should go," he said thickly.  
  
"Should I?" She pressed the folded paper into his hand.  
  
He kept his eyes on that hand and prayed she would leave, because the consequences of her tone of voice were likely to be the sort that would make a man write a prophecy to warn others off for centuries to come. But of course he had no right to ask a favor from any God in the pantheon, as proven by her increasing proximity.   
  
"Where were you really headed?" Her fingers encircled his wrist.   
  
Outside, night began to fall.


End file.
